Fire
by amaXdear
Summary: He is too young to have bones that ache.  MxM vignettes, set after the explosion. Mello POV. T for vague references to violence and sexual content


He is too young to have bones that ache. In some parts of the world, he isn't even an adult yet, but still his bones creak when he gets out of bed, when he reaches into the fridge, and sometimes even when he throws one leg over his motorcycle. (That kills him. What's the point of living if you're too old to ride a motorcycle?)

He blames the explosion. When bones get hot enough, they start to break. He lies awake sometimes when he should be asleep, imagining his bones are fracturing, cracks expanding like tectonic plates pulling away from each other. Someday, maybe, the paths of the cracks will intersect, and little flakes of bone will fall off and crumble into piles of dust. The creak he hears when he gets up each morning serves as a warning, and a reminder to thank God.

Still, the explosion was good for some things. He touches the scar once a day, fingers exploring the bumpy topographical map that his face has become. The scar tissue is heavy, like a mask that he can take off at any time and reveal to the world-_ta da_!-his perfect, unblemished face beneath. He likes having secrets.

The thing he likes best about Matt is that Matt never asks for secrets. He just sits there, smoking, his sharp eyes flickering everywhere like a dragonfly skimming the surface of a pond. It's incredible, how he manages to move while staying still, so Mello gives him a secret as a reward, and then another and another. _Here is a memory of my mother. Here is what I really miss about L. Here is something I wish I wasn't afraid of_. He has no more secrets, but Matt smiles at him, and he honestly couldn't care less. He leans his head back and falls asleep, the tip of his boot touching Matt's ankle.

(-)

"Did you know we both have Biblical names?"

"Hm?"

"Yeah. You're named after a saint."

"No kidding. Which one?"

"Saint Matthew, dumbass. He was one of the apostles. Matthew the Evangelist, patron saint of accountants, bankers, and tax collectors."

"You're shitting me. Accountants have a saint?"

"Yeah."

"Huh. It doesn't matter, anyway. My name's not Matthew, it's just Matt. Well, it's not really Matt either, but you know what I mean. Just Matt. Is there a Saint Matt?"

"...No."

"What about you? Mello, patron saint of leather? No, chocolate. No-"

"Angel, actually. Mihael, Angel of Loyalty."

"Loyalty? You just made that up."

"I did not. There are prayers to him."

"There are not."

"'O Mihael, Angel of Loyalty, I am willing to give to others that which I hope to receive. Lead me to those relationships that I desire and I will show you and God that I am a loyal and trustworthy servant to the Kingdom of Heaven. Through the Precious, Pure and Holy name of Christ I pray. Amen.'"

"You weren't kidding."

"Nope. What?"

"Nothing, I just... I never thought praying actually worked."

"What do you mean?"

"That prayer... you prayed for me, didn't you? And here I am."

The smoke rises in wispy curls that mingle with dust motes and sunlight. Lips curve in a smile.

"How saintlike of you. Very modest."

"Mihael..."

(-)

Once, in the witching hour, Matt stubs out his cigarette and looks away from the monitors, leaning against the back of the ratty old couch. Mello is asleep in the armchair, but Matt's soft sigh wakes him.

"Amane?"

"Asleep."

"I'll watch her. You sleep."

"You don't have to watch her. She never does anything at night."

Mello gets up anyway, and sits to Matt's left. He stares resolutely at the monitors, ignoring Matt when he starts to lean against his shoulder. Mello pushes back, keeping his balance. They continue this playful struggle until Matt slips, loses his balance, and lands in Mello's lap. He laughs. Mello's eyes remain on the monitor.

"I can make some popcorn to go with our movie," Matt suggests with a grin.

"Don't be stupid," Mello responds, but he doesn't even try to hide the fond half-smile on his face.

He stretches out, placing his boots on the table and draping his arms around the back of the couch like it's a zebra-patterned sofa in a mafioso's headquarters. Matt moves with him, his throat draped across Mello's thigh. Mello wonders if he can hear the cracking sound of his hipbones. He wonders if Matt's bones ache, too.

"There's this thing," Matt says. The rings of his trachea vibrate. "You take some kettle corn, and you melt butterscotch and chocolate over it. It's sweet-you'd like it."

"We don't have popcorn. Or butterscotch. And you aren't melting _anything_."

The crinkle of a wrapper and a harsh crack emphasize his words nicely. Matt grins. His eyes are two flat planes of orange plastic, but Mello swears they twinkle with laughter.

(-)

Sometimes he can still feel ashes on his skin. He lifts a hand to his face and catches the scent of cinders; his tongue darts out to wet his lips and he tastes smoke. He takes showers and turns the water up as far as it can go, and he scrubs until the edge of the scar turns puffy and white, the skin around it angry red.

He is sitting on the couch with a book of poetry that he first read at home-at Wammy's. It's harsh and wild, and the street kid in him used to love it, but now he identifies less with the words and more with the spaces between them. As he reads, he shifts, very slightly, and a lock of hair brushes over his cheek. It smells like smoke, so he shuts the book and stands, muttering something about taking a shower.

Matt looks up.

"That's the third one today. What's wrong with you?"

"I smell like a damn explosion," Mello growls.

Matt stares at him incredulously. Then he stands, closing the distance between them in long, purposeful strides. He places his hand on Mello's shoulder and leans in to the place where the corner of his jaw meets his neck. The bridge of Matt's nose touches his earlobe, and he inhales deeply. When he releases the breath, it is a laugh.

"No you don't, Mello. You smell like nicotine and fire."

He plucks a cigarette from the ash tray where he had deposited it and takes a drag. The tip glows orange. He breathes the smoke out, and Mello can feel it slip into the spaces between his cells.

"My favorite," Matt grins.

The hand with the cigarette returns to Mello's shoulder, and their lips brush against each other, warm, sweet, and insubstantial.

(-)

They have removed their own socks and shoes, and Matt has transferred a dozen empty wrappers from his pockets to the trash. Mello sits on the bed. Matt kneels, resting back on his feet, and runs his fingers over the beads of Mello's rosaries-one around his neck and one at his wrist.

"You can't wear these while I'm kissing you. It's just-I don't know, it's just creepy. And blasphemous."

"Kissing?" Mello asks slyly, raising an amused eyebrow.

"Kissing," Matt repeats, but a blush betrays him. First his fingers undo the clasp of the bracelet, then he lifts the necklace away.

No one has never been as naked as they are. As they shed their clothes, they also shed their names-Matt runs one hand down the scar, whispering, "Jesus, Mihael..."

"Tell me. Please-"

"Mail." He presses a kiss to the scarred ear. "We sound good together."

Mail. Mihael. There's a kind of melody to it, or a rhythm, that is perfectly in time with the pitch of breath and the creaking of bones.


End file.
